


Five Times Defended

by theharellan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan (Dragon Age), Canon Divergence, Elvhenan, Elvhenan (Dragon Age), Gen, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Relationship degradation, sometimes the best of them still isn't all that great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: Time slows to a crawl within the palm of his hand, dust suspended between his fingers. The wings of a horsefly cease their drone, held in stasis before Mythal’s very eyes. “It was after your blood,” he says with mock offense, though the lazy smile that turns the corners of his lips betrays him. “Does it not know who you are?”“Evidently not, but what would a fly know of dragons?”He was her protector, her guardian, for centuries before he knew the name Fen'Harel. Five times Solas defended Mythal from the gods, and from her people.
Relationships: Flemeth | Mythal & Solas (Dragon Age), Mythal - Relationship
Kudos: 1





	Five Times Defended

**_one._** The challenger falls to the ground at Mythal’s feet. Alive, but at her mercy. He stands over her, staff brushing the ground where it had swept under her knees. A self-assured smile steals onto Mythal’s face and her eyes lift, sweeping across the crowd. “Would anyone else care to try?”

Silence follows. Eyes wide with alarm now lower, falling as hands clasp in prayer. He straightens, staff in hand, only convinced the danger had passed when the challenger limps away. “I thought not.” She beckons to him, hand bracing his shoulder with a familial touch.

The moment is committed to memory, woven by one of her devoted. His elvhen shape is forgotten, in its stead, the wolf’s teeth flash, red with blood.

**_two._** Time slows to a crawl within the palm of his hand, dust suspended between his fingers. The wings of a horsefly cease their drone, held in stasis before Mythal’s very eyes. “It was after your blood,” Fenara says with mock offense, though the lazy smile that turns the corners of his lips betrays him. “Does it not know who you are?”

“Evidently not, but what _would_ a fly know of dragons?”  


“A horsefly? Very little, I assume.” Time quickens, but only by a fraction, the buzzing sound swallowed as though heard from across a field. He pushes his palm out, wafting away thin air, and the fly is hurried along invisible currents, its wings humming the song of Mythal’s mercy.  


_**three.**_ Blood darkens the steps of her temple, the fright its bearer knew in his final moments lingers, heavy in the air. Mythal steps over the pool deftly, crimson red steals up her robes in streaks where the hem trails along the floor. She regards Fenara with a warm eye, hand reaching out to calm the magic still clenched in his fist. “It is over, _lethallen_ ,” she says. “The danger has passed.”

His fingers spread at her command, energy dissipating between them. The trespasser’s body lies broken at the bottom of the stairs. Glassy eyes hold the image of his reflection, expression twisted with the heat of a fight. He cannot bring himself to look long, face turning to stare at the still surface of the Vir’abelasan.

Mythal leans over to inspect his remains, hands tucked neatly behind her back. “You were overzealous,” she chides. “No trace of their motive remains, dread alone persists.”  


Ears pin against his head, shame needling his conscience. He reaches out with his mind, grasping for some information he might have to offer and comes up with little. “He tried to speak before he breathed his last.” He gestures to the body, though his eyes do not move from their target. Whispers mist across the water, carrying secrets meant only for the chosen few. It had to be the trespasser’s goal, though to what end they may never know. “The sound may be caught.”

“I see.”

He catches her hand in the corner of his vision, palm up, waiting expectantly for him to answer her unspoken request. The dagger at his waist hums, so eager that it leaps into his fingers when he reaches to it. Mythal takes it and, kneeling upon her own temple’s floor, draws it over the dead man’s throat. A name breaks free from the jugular, its sound sweet and wanting: “ _Eshelan_.”

They linger in its echo, each waiting for the other to come to a revelation. Mythal relents first, “Does it mean anything to you?” His head shakes in response.

“Nothing.” It replays in his head irregardless, equal parts awed and remorseful that a few short sounds can convey such affection. “Only that he knew love worth dying for.”  


**_four._** Her form tears at the seams, skin splitting at the joints as the essence of the Void bleeds through. The scream that rips from her lips turn his blood to ice. Secrets spill forth from them, filling his head with whispers, blackening the world in her wake. Over her cries, he tries to call her name– _Andruil_ – but it is dead to her ears.

“She has forgotten,” Mythal says, her expression grave. Fear shines in her eyes, though it takes him a breath to recognise it (he had forgotten how it looked on her).  


“I had hoped…” he begins to say, wondering if it even matters what he had hoped. Enough of her remained that their gambit had worked, mere rumours of a beast had brought her to them. Despite everything, some essence of the Hunter remains.  


He tries to move forward, resolve swelling within him, ready to take the shape of a hunted beast. Her hand on his shoulder stops him. “Wait.” He stills immediately. “ _I_ am her quarry.”

An argument dies within him. _What good is this body if it is not permitted to die for you?_ The question burns within him, begging to be asked beside a thousand others. _Why do I wish for it?_ They howl like the secrets that erupt from Andruil, but his lips are sealed. He bows his head deferentially, stepping aside so that she may make her move.

Mythal takes to the air with an ease fitting of the First, dark wings pale against the black curse Andruil brought with her. He watches from afar, his name lessening with every blow struck against her.

**_five._** Dressed in threadbare robes, he walks among the People, seeking normalcy in someone else’s life. The west remembers Andruil’s plague, but in the east it is a mere story carried forth by their heralds. Fountains sing praises to a new day, city streets gleam with the city’s prosperity, life is as he remembers.

Almost.

A great temple looms in the city’s center, nightshade vines twisting up its walls. The prayers of the faithful rise from within, as fervent and sincere as the day he’d first heard them, but their song disquiets him, apprehension flooding his veins. He evades the shadow it casts, hood pulled over his head to avoid the carved eyes of Falon’Din. Fenara begins to ask himself why, but kills the question in him before he can answer.

Beyond its shadow, shelter lies. He settles into a seat that had been saving itself long before his arrival and is served a warm, honeyed drink which quiets the fear in him. Yet around him, the world continues, ever forward. Conversations between friends, strangers whose faces he might never see again.

“They should have acted sooner.” One voice carries farther than the rest, loud in their cup. Day has only just broken, yet the quality of their opinion comes with the taste of wine. Suspicion tells him this has gone on for days. “Mythal tarried, and lives were lost. Convenient that she only cared to intervene when the life of her fellows were the ones at risk.” The gulp of wine punctuates their thoughts. “They should have acted sooner.”  


His grip tightens around his cup, knuckles white against his skin. He tells himself not to speak, to let them have their blasphemes, that Mythal had bled for them to express their doubt, but his mouth opens as he turns in his seat. “Without her, we would all be lost to plague,” he says. The stranger’s eyes widen with bewilderment, in them he sees days of drunken stupor, each word of sacrilege deaf to the ears of their compatriots. Only he had heard them, only his heart had heeded them. _Why?_ “You ought to be in worship, praising her name.”

Confusion fades quickly from their eyes, and in its place hard defiance sets in, drawn across a dark brow. “If you believe that, then tell me: why are you here?”

No answer comes, or none that will not give him away.

Defiance gives way to satisfaction, broadening their grin. “As I thought,” they say, “you agree.”

Cold doubt steals over him, and from afar he feels the statue’s gaze turn his way.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a friend on theharellan. The alternate name, history, and relationship with Mythal are all my own invention and not intended to be canon compliant!


End file.
